azombiewrites (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
azombiewrites) wrote2013-03-19 07:17 pm
azombiewrites) wrote2013-03-19 07:17 pm
Midsomer Murders fic - 'The Collected Hurts of DS Ben Jones' - 3/?
Title: The Collected Hurts of DS Jones
Fandom: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: PG
Warnings: If descriptions of decayed corpses and flies and maggots makes you icky, then reading this will probably make you feel . . . icky.
Summary: 5 times DS Jones was whumped and 1 time he wasn't.
Main Characters: DS Ben Jones, DCI John Barnaby, Sarah Barnaby and Kate Wilding.
Disclaimer: Created and based on the characters and books by Caroline Graham. A Bentley production for ITV.
Spoilers: Set during season 14.
Word Count: 2,710
Status: Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story.
3. The Must Have Beat Up
Summary: Taken by surprise, receiving a disabling injury so he can’t fight back, DS Jones finds himself at a disadvantage.
The rain had finally let up, deciding that it wanted to move on to a more dehydrated locality, leaving behind nothing but mud and a lingering smell of soggy damp. The weather was now turning humid, the warning of an unfamiliar heat wave threatening to ruin everyone’s week. Including the poor sod chosen for sentry duty, now standing in the mud and growing heat, her job to keep curious gossips away from the crime scene; putrid odor coming from the cottage not helping one little bit.
Shoes squelching through the mud, DS Ben Jones made his way toward the home of the deceased Mrs. Hostetler, nodding in greeting as he passed WPC Turpin. The uniformed officer opened her mouth to respond, closing it just as quickly, gagging on the rotten smell that hung around like an unwelcome mother-in-law. Jones grimaced in sympathy, remembering the days when he’d been the poor sod, bored out of his mind given nothing better to do than stand around for hours keeping those with a morbid curiosity beyond the crime scene tape. His sympathy quickly dispersed when he remembered where he was going; into the cottage, heat and smell stronger than it was out in the open.
The path he followed quickly turned to weeds overgrown, flattened by the two-way traffic of yesterday, crime scene attendants moving back and forth, some rushing to the side of the house to empty their stomachs. Beaten to death with an antique electric clothes iron, Mrs. Hostetler hadn’t been a pretty corpse, left to rot for almost two weeks before an inquisitive neighbour found her. Body bloated, eye sockets empty, fleshing turning black, skin peeling, maggots eating; even Jones had had trouble keeping his breakfast down.
Breathing through his mouth, Jones unlocked and opened the front door, closing his eyes and turning his head away as a rush of hot putrid air embraced him, clinging to his suit, his skin. The smell sickened him, turning his stomach. Hesitating before entering the cottage, Jones stood still for an extended moment, hoping the odour would lose its strength. It didn’t, it only grew stronger. Stepping into the main hallway, Jones felt a lingering presence, the feeling sending a shiver along his spine. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but if they did exist, surely, even Mrs. Hostetler wouldn’t stick around, not here, not in a home ranked with the odour of death.
Behind him, the front door slammed shut, the sound loud in the confined space of the hallway. Body jerking in surprise, Jones turned around. Nothing there, no shadows; human or ghost, no strong breeze to close the door. His heart beat painfully against his ribcage, the burst of adrenaline fading quickly. Jones adjusted his tie, the moment awkward, embarrassing, even in his own company, grateful that no one else had seen his reaction.
Satisfied a horrifically decayed corpse didn't haunt the hallway, Jones turned and moved further into the house. Dead, bloated flies crunched beneath his shoes, the sound echoing off wooden floorboards grating on already fraying nerves. He stopped in the open doorway leading into the back living room, hand over his mouth and nose, adjusting to the sight and smell. Mrs. Hostetler had died in this room, corpse feeding the large colony of insects squatting in her home.
A dark blanket covered the furniture; dust, collected over time, had turned black, the flies and other insects dropping, dying where they now lay amongst the dirt. Death by gluttony. Jones wasn’t able to adjust, the sight continuing to nauseate him, the smell melting his sinuses. Jones stood before Mrs. Hostetler’s place of death, wooden floor stained with liquefying body fats, dead flies and maggots giving the stain an ugly pattern. The smell was even stronger here, the floor yet to dry, the odour like condensation, rising up into the air. He shuddered, the smell acting as though it were a living thing, crawling across his flesh, nipping and biting at his skin. He felt dirty, in need of a hot shower and a change of clothes. But he had to admit, it wasn’t as bad as it had been the day before, corpse stuck to the floorboards in the middle of the room, smell and sight causing at least one officer to faint. He swallowed the memory of Mrs. Hostetler, flesh separating from wood when moved, the sound excruciating. At least the constant hum of buzzing flies was no longer a problem, the silence eerie, almost uncomfortable.
It was an unpleasant environment and the sooner he got out of it, the better. But he couldn’t leave, not yet. Barnaby had insisted on taking a second look at the crime scene; psychology degree hoping to find something, see something that would explain the killer’s motive. Only one problem with that, Barnaby wasn’t here; caught up interviewing a witness. Jones hadn’t been too impressed when Barnaby, confident in his sergeant’s abilities, had told Jones to start without him. Jones, once again the lackey, stuck with the dirty work. At least the new Barnaby wasn’t as bad as the old Barnaby, Jones’s cleaning bill not as expensive as it once was.
The sound of flies under foot warned Jones of another presence in the room; gut feeling telling him that something wasn’t right. He heard it before he felt it, a solid object splitting the air. Time sped up, things moving too quickly for Jones to keep up, reacting without thinking. Curling his shoulders upward, hands lifting to protect his skull, Jones moved on instinct, hopefully in the right direction, an attempt to avoid painful contact. Pain exploded across his back, hunching him over, a grunt of pain and surprise escaping through gritted teeth. A second blow, more painful than the first, forced him down onto his hands and knees, scrambling to get back up before his attacker could strike a third time. Hands slipping in Mrs. Hostetler’s leftovers, Jones fell onto his right side, suit now ruined; pungent odour so close, his eyes began to water.
His spine felt broken, the pain spreading quickly through his back, his shoulders becoming stiff, fingers numb, making movement awkward. Jones struggled to get up, the drying liquid on the floor keeping him down, limbs finding it difficult to find purchase. He looked upward, gauging his situation. A tall figure stood over him, black balaclava hiding his face, crowbar held above his right shoulder, preparing to strike again. Jones struck first, the heel of his shoe slamming against the side of his attacker’s right knee. Lack of a firm footing took the strength out of the blow, the man barely reacting. Jones slipped onto his back, leaving himself open to attack. Through eyes filled with pain, Jones watched as the crowbar began its decent, swung like a golf club, destination unknown. His chest tight with fear, Jones made a feeble attempt to get out of its way, feet and numb fingers slipping in what Mrs. Hostetler had left behind. His attacker retaliated in kind, the crowbar bouncing off the side of Jones’s right knee.
Jones couldn’t help but scream; the pain agonizing, the sound cut off when his attacker pressed a hand over his mouth. Controlled only by the pain, Jones forgot about everything else. Eyes shut tight Jones struggled to breathe through his nose, breath harsh, quick. The muscles in and around his knee began to spasm, the pain unbearable. He feared it was dislocated, broken... Bugger of a thing to fix.
“Where is it?”
At the sound of his attacker’s voice, Jones’s eyes snapped open. He blinked, clearing his vision, bringing the man into focus. Hand removed, only to return as a clenched fist, snapping Jones’s head to the side. The feeling of Mrs. Hostetler on his skin left Jones feeling sick to his stomach.
“Where is it?”
“I’m a police offi--”
“I know who you are, Jonesy, and right now, I don’t care. I want that money and you’re going to tell me where it is.” The man dropped the crowbar onto the floor, Jones flinching away when it just managed to miss his skull. Kneeling beside Jones, the man placed his hand back over Jones’s mouth and reaching back, he slapped an open palm against the side of Jones’s damaged knee, not once but twice.
Not just a lackey doing the dirty work but a lackey getting his arse kicked.
Jones felt light-headed, the pain too much, the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision, limbs going limp. Removing his hand the man hit him a second time, closed fist against the side of Jones’s face, this time hard enough to break the skin. Jones tried to focus, to think of a way out.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know what--”
A hand gripped his throat, squeezing until he could no longer breathe. “You came here for it! Where is it?”
Knowing he would fail to remove his attacker’s hand, the grip too strong, Jones searched for something he could use to fight back. Numb fingers scraping through Mrs. Hostetler, he found the crowbar. Gripping it as tightly as numb fingers would allow, Jones lifted his arm, swinging the crowbar. It struck the man across the side of the head, knocking him sideways, but not off Jones. Realising the man wasn’t down for the count, Jones struck again, sending the man into oblivion.
Jones dropped the crowbar and pushed upward, pain rippling through his back as he tried to lift the weight off his chest. Clenching his teeth, he gave one final shove, pushing his attacker up and over to the side. No longer caring about disturbing Mrs. Hostetler’s remaining remains, Jones let his head fall back with a soft thump. He needed a moment. Needed to calm his beating heart, satisfy anorexic lungs, wait for the pain to ease. It took longer than he had expected, his heart finally slowing, his lungs no longer needy. The pain refused to cooperate. Two out of three wasn’t bad.
He shifted onto his left hip – right knee threatening retaliation – and reached behind his back for his handcuffs. Pain flared across his shoulders, pins and needles spreading through his arms, reaching fingertips. Jones fumbled with the cuffs, taking longer than what was normal to cuff his attacker’s hands behind the man’s back. When done, Jones let himself fall back, body exhausted by pain, adrenaline now lacking, his knee throbbing painfully.
He needed help.
WPC Turpin was yet to launch a rescue attempt; too busy being bored to hear his cut-off scream no doubt. He had two options: call out in the hope that Turpin would hear him, or make the emergency call himself. Jones chose the latter, an opportunity to redeem his masculinity, prove that even as a lackey he could still do his job without complaint, could get himself out of a difficult situation. Jones removed his phone from his pocket and called the station, reporting an officer down and his location.
Left to wait, Jones didn’t want to stay where he was, Mrs. Hostetler beneath him, her odour nauseating him still. Her touch intruding, Jones could feel her crawling over his skin. It was disturbingly creepy. Chest tight with anxiety, Jones decided to move. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his fear realised when the pain intensified. Knee and back screaming at him, both fighting for his attention. Using his hands, feeling returning to fingers, Jones pushed himself backward, giving himself and Mrs. Hostetler the privacy they both deserved. She held on tight, his right hand slipping in her reduced body fats, arm buckling beneath him. His right hip struck the floor, the sudden jolt sending an explosion of pain through his knee. Jones blacked out before his head hit the floor.
.
.
.
Jones woke with a start; Mrs. Hostetler’s touch still lingering on his skin, her odour stifling. He felt nauseated, dizzy, mouth dry, his body heavy with exhaustion. Pain, no longer sharp, held on with an unyielding grip. Brain unravelling, memory like an old faded photograph, Jones struggled to remember. Like a difficult puzzle, pieces of memory began to come together, a larger, clearer image exposed. He’d laid on top of Mrs. Hostetler, that much was certain, a horrific explanation for the smell and touch. The thought of the dead maggots, the flies, her body tissues against his skin, in his hair . . . a violent shudder ran through him. He grimaced when the pain spiked, taking too long before it faded once again into the background. He remembered the crowbar arching through the air, colliding with his knee, the pain strong and hot. Reminded that his back had felt broken, Jones flexed his fingers, the toes of his left foot. Not broken. He sighed with grateful relief.
“Jones?”
Everything snapped into place for Jones. He’d woken back in the cottage, what was left of Mrs. Hostetler still beneath him, an unconscious suspect beside him, DCI Barnaby hovering over him. Jones remembered the fear in Barnaby’s eyes, his boss no doubt worried about a serious injury. Things had quickly deteriorated, Jones’s stomach deciding it wouldn’t take it anymore, its tolerance for the smell no longer existent. Barnaby had turned him onto his side; the pain in his back and knee excruciating. He couldn’t remember much after that, his memory filled with shadows drifting in and out of sight.
“Ben?”
Jones opened his eyes, vision blurred, eyelids beyond heavy. The floor beneath him was no longer wooden, hard, sticky with Mrs. Hostetler. Instead, it was soft, comfortable. Beige walls, white sheets and a hospital issued blanket told Jones his location. Barnaby sat beside his bed, looking worried and uncomfortable in a thin plastic chair.
“Sir.”
Barnaby leaned forward, hand resting on the edge of the bed, “Do you need anything?”
Lacking the energy to move, only wanting to go back to sleep, Jones said, “No, sir.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“Going to psychoanalyse me are you, sir,” said Jones.
“Just making sure you’re okay, Jones. Concerned boss and all that.”
Feeling awkward and emotionally uncomfortable, Jones turned his head toward Barnaby, his shoulders tightening with a dull ache. Jones could feel his brain shifting, somehow knocked off kilter, leaning heavily to the left. He closed his eyes hoping his equilibrium would quickly catch up, balance slow to return. Opening his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice the expectant expression Barnaby was wearing. His boss was waiting for an answer, confirmation his sergeant was okay.
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jones. “Anyway, the worst of it was Mrs. Hostetler.”
“How so?”
“Well . . . she was all over me.”
“Getting a bit were you, Jones,” said Barnaby.
“Not my type, sir.”
“No,” said Barnaby. “Of course not.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
Barnaby smiled. “If you start having erotic nightmares about dead women, you’ll tell me?”
“In explicit detail, sir,” said Jones. “Did I kill him?”
“His name is Arnold Bunning. And no, you didn’t kill him. Gave him a nasty concussion though.”
Jones frowned, forehead creasing as he tried to remember. “I don’t know him.”
“Should you?”
“He said he knew who I was,” said Jones. “Said something about money.”
“Ahh,” said Barnaby, the colour draining from his face as he leaned back into the plastic chair. “Jones, about that . . .”
“Sir?”
“Our witness, Mrs. Wilson, told me there’s a rumour going around the village that Mrs. Hostetler was a hoarder when it came to money. It was rumoured she had a small fortune hidden somewhere in her cottage.”
“We searched the house. There was no money.”
“She did say it was a rumour,” said Barnaby.
“He broke my knee because of a rumour?”
“Dislocated your kneecap,” said Barnaby.
“Well, that’s all right then.”
“They had to give you a general anaesthetic so they could put it back into place, something about too much pain and muscle spasm making it difficult. They’re waiting for the swelling to go down before they put a knee brace on your leg.”
“Oh,” said Jones, nodding in bewilderment.
“And you’ve got severe bruising on your back.”
“Is that all?”
“You’ve still got most of Mrs. Hostetler all over you.”
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four
Master Fan Fiction List
Fandom: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: PG
Warnings: If descriptions of decayed corpses and flies and maggots makes you icky, then reading this will probably make you feel . . . icky.
Summary: 5 times DS Jones was whumped and 1 time he wasn't.
Main Characters: DS Ben Jones, DCI John Barnaby, Sarah Barnaby and Kate Wilding.
Disclaimer: Created and based on the characters and books by Caroline Graham. A Bentley production for ITV.
Spoilers: Set during season 14.
Word Count: 2,710
Status: Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story.
3. The Must Have Beat Up
Summary: Taken by surprise, receiving a disabling injury so he can’t fight back, DS Jones finds himself at a disadvantage.
The rain had finally let up, deciding that it wanted to move on to a more dehydrated locality, leaving behind nothing but mud and a lingering smell of soggy damp. The weather was now turning humid, the warning of an unfamiliar heat wave threatening to ruin everyone’s week. Including the poor sod chosen for sentry duty, now standing in the mud and growing heat, her job to keep curious gossips away from the crime scene; putrid odor coming from the cottage not helping one little bit.
Shoes squelching through the mud, DS Ben Jones made his way toward the home of the deceased Mrs. Hostetler, nodding in greeting as he passed WPC Turpin. The uniformed officer opened her mouth to respond, closing it just as quickly, gagging on the rotten smell that hung around like an unwelcome mother-in-law. Jones grimaced in sympathy, remembering the days when he’d been the poor sod, bored out of his mind given nothing better to do than stand around for hours keeping those with a morbid curiosity beyond the crime scene tape. His sympathy quickly dispersed when he remembered where he was going; into the cottage, heat and smell stronger than it was out in the open.
The path he followed quickly turned to weeds overgrown, flattened by the two-way traffic of yesterday, crime scene attendants moving back and forth, some rushing to the side of the house to empty their stomachs. Beaten to death with an antique electric clothes iron, Mrs. Hostetler hadn’t been a pretty corpse, left to rot for almost two weeks before an inquisitive neighbour found her. Body bloated, eye sockets empty, fleshing turning black, skin peeling, maggots eating; even Jones had had trouble keeping his breakfast down.
Breathing through his mouth, Jones unlocked and opened the front door, closing his eyes and turning his head away as a rush of hot putrid air embraced him, clinging to his suit, his skin. The smell sickened him, turning his stomach. Hesitating before entering the cottage, Jones stood still for an extended moment, hoping the odour would lose its strength. It didn’t, it only grew stronger. Stepping into the main hallway, Jones felt a lingering presence, the feeling sending a shiver along his spine. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but if they did exist, surely, even Mrs. Hostetler wouldn’t stick around, not here, not in a home ranked with the odour of death.
Behind him, the front door slammed shut, the sound loud in the confined space of the hallway. Body jerking in surprise, Jones turned around. Nothing there, no shadows; human or ghost, no strong breeze to close the door. His heart beat painfully against his ribcage, the burst of adrenaline fading quickly. Jones adjusted his tie, the moment awkward, embarrassing, even in his own company, grateful that no one else had seen his reaction.
Satisfied a horrifically decayed corpse didn't haunt the hallway, Jones turned and moved further into the house. Dead, bloated flies crunched beneath his shoes, the sound echoing off wooden floorboards grating on already fraying nerves. He stopped in the open doorway leading into the back living room, hand over his mouth and nose, adjusting to the sight and smell. Mrs. Hostetler had died in this room, corpse feeding the large colony of insects squatting in her home.
A dark blanket covered the furniture; dust, collected over time, had turned black, the flies and other insects dropping, dying where they now lay amongst the dirt. Death by gluttony. Jones wasn’t able to adjust, the sight continuing to nauseate him, the smell melting his sinuses. Jones stood before Mrs. Hostetler’s place of death, wooden floor stained with liquefying body fats, dead flies and maggots giving the stain an ugly pattern. The smell was even stronger here, the floor yet to dry, the odour like condensation, rising up into the air. He shuddered, the smell acting as though it were a living thing, crawling across his flesh, nipping and biting at his skin. He felt dirty, in need of a hot shower and a change of clothes. But he had to admit, it wasn’t as bad as it had been the day before, corpse stuck to the floorboards in the middle of the room, smell and sight causing at least one officer to faint. He swallowed the memory of Mrs. Hostetler, flesh separating from wood when moved, the sound excruciating. At least the constant hum of buzzing flies was no longer a problem, the silence eerie, almost uncomfortable.
It was an unpleasant environment and the sooner he got out of it, the better. But he couldn’t leave, not yet. Barnaby had insisted on taking a second look at the crime scene; psychology degree hoping to find something, see something that would explain the killer’s motive. Only one problem with that, Barnaby wasn’t here; caught up interviewing a witness. Jones hadn’t been too impressed when Barnaby, confident in his sergeant’s abilities, had told Jones to start without him. Jones, once again the lackey, stuck with the dirty work. At least the new Barnaby wasn’t as bad as the old Barnaby, Jones’s cleaning bill not as expensive as it once was.
The sound of flies under foot warned Jones of another presence in the room; gut feeling telling him that something wasn’t right. He heard it before he felt it, a solid object splitting the air. Time sped up, things moving too quickly for Jones to keep up, reacting without thinking. Curling his shoulders upward, hands lifting to protect his skull, Jones moved on instinct, hopefully in the right direction, an attempt to avoid painful contact. Pain exploded across his back, hunching him over, a grunt of pain and surprise escaping through gritted teeth. A second blow, more painful than the first, forced him down onto his hands and knees, scrambling to get back up before his attacker could strike a third time. Hands slipping in Mrs. Hostetler’s leftovers, Jones fell onto his right side, suit now ruined; pungent odour so close, his eyes began to water.
His spine felt broken, the pain spreading quickly through his back, his shoulders becoming stiff, fingers numb, making movement awkward. Jones struggled to get up, the drying liquid on the floor keeping him down, limbs finding it difficult to find purchase. He looked upward, gauging his situation. A tall figure stood over him, black balaclava hiding his face, crowbar held above his right shoulder, preparing to strike again. Jones struck first, the heel of his shoe slamming against the side of his attacker’s right knee. Lack of a firm footing took the strength out of the blow, the man barely reacting. Jones slipped onto his back, leaving himself open to attack. Through eyes filled with pain, Jones watched as the crowbar began its decent, swung like a golf club, destination unknown. His chest tight with fear, Jones made a feeble attempt to get out of its way, feet and numb fingers slipping in what Mrs. Hostetler had left behind. His attacker retaliated in kind, the crowbar bouncing off the side of Jones’s right knee.
Jones couldn’t help but scream; the pain agonizing, the sound cut off when his attacker pressed a hand over his mouth. Controlled only by the pain, Jones forgot about everything else. Eyes shut tight Jones struggled to breathe through his nose, breath harsh, quick. The muscles in and around his knee began to spasm, the pain unbearable. He feared it was dislocated, broken... Bugger of a thing to fix.
“Where is it?”
At the sound of his attacker’s voice, Jones’s eyes snapped open. He blinked, clearing his vision, bringing the man into focus. Hand removed, only to return as a clenched fist, snapping Jones’s head to the side. The feeling of Mrs. Hostetler on his skin left Jones feeling sick to his stomach.
“Where is it?”
“I’m a police offi--”
“I know who you are, Jonesy, and right now, I don’t care. I want that money and you’re going to tell me where it is.” The man dropped the crowbar onto the floor, Jones flinching away when it just managed to miss his skull. Kneeling beside Jones, the man placed his hand back over Jones’s mouth and reaching back, he slapped an open palm against the side of Jones’s damaged knee, not once but twice.
Not just a lackey doing the dirty work but a lackey getting his arse kicked.
Jones felt light-headed, the pain too much, the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision, limbs going limp. Removing his hand the man hit him a second time, closed fist against the side of Jones’s face, this time hard enough to break the skin. Jones tried to focus, to think of a way out.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know what--”
A hand gripped his throat, squeezing until he could no longer breathe. “You came here for it! Where is it?”
Knowing he would fail to remove his attacker’s hand, the grip too strong, Jones searched for something he could use to fight back. Numb fingers scraping through Mrs. Hostetler, he found the crowbar. Gripping it as tightly as numb fingers would allow, Jones lifted his arm, swinging the crowbar. It struck the man across the side of the head, knocking him sideways, but not off Jones. Realising the man wasn’t down for the count, Jones struck again, sending the man into oblivion.
Jones dropped the crowbar and pushed upward, pain rippling through his back as he tried to lift the weight off his chest. Clenching his teeth, he gave one final shove, pushing his attacker up and over to the side. No longer caring about disturbing Mrs. Hostetler’s remaining remains, Jones let his head fall back with a soft thump. He needed a moment. Needed to calm his beating heart, satisfy anorexic lungs, wait for the pain to ease. It took longer than he had expected, his heart finally slowing, his lungs no longer needy. The pain refused to cooperate. Two out of three wasn’t bad.
He shifted onto his left hip – right knee threatening retaliation – and reached behind his back for his handcuffs. Pain flared across his shoulders, pins and needles spreading through his arms, reaching fingertips. Jones fumbled with the cuffs, taking longer than what was normal to cuff his attacker’s hands behind the man’s back. When done, Jones let himself fall back, body exhausted by pain, adrenaline now lacking, his knee throbbing painfully.
He needed help.
WPC Turpin was yet to launch a rescue attempt; too busy being bored to hear his cut-off scream no doubt. He had two options: call out in the hope that Turpin would hear him, or make the emergency call himself. Jones chose the latter, an opportunity to redeem his masculinity, prove that even as a lackey he could still do his job without complaint, could get himself out of a difficult situation. Jones removed his phone from his pocket and called the station, reporting an officer down and his location.
Left to wait, Jones didn’t want to stay where he was, Mrs. Hostetler beneath him, her odour nauseating him still. Her touch intruding, Jones could feel her crawling over his skin. It was disturbingly creepy. Chest tight with anxiety, Jones decided to move. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his fear realised when the pain intensified. Knee and back screaming at him, both fighting for his attention. Using his hands, feeling returning to fingers, Jones pushed himself backward, giving himself and Mrs. Hostetler the privacy they both deserved. She held on tight, his right hand slipping in her reduced body fats, arm buckling beneath him. His right hip struck the floor, the sudden jolt sending an explosion of pain through his knee. Jones blacked out before his head hit the floor.
.
.
.
Jones woke with a start; Mrs. Hostetler’s touch still lingering on his skin, her odour stifling. He felt nauseated, dizzy, mouth dry, his body heavy with exhaustion. Pain, no longer sharp, held on with an unyielding grip. Brain unravelling, memory like an old faded photograph, Jones struggled to remember. Like a difficult puzzle, pieces of memory began to come together, a larger, clearer image exposed. He’d laid on top of Mrs. Hostetler, that much was certain, a horrific explanation for the smell and touch. The thought of the dead maggots, the flies, her body tissues against his skin, in his hair . . . a violent shudder ran through him. He grimaced when the pain spiked, taking too long before it faded once again into the background. He remembered the crowbar arching through the air, colliding with his knee, the pain strong and hot. Reminded that his back had felt broken, Jones flexed his fingers, the toes of his left foot. Not broken. He sighed with grateful relief.
“Jones?”
Everything snapped into place for Jones. He’d woken back in the cottage, what was left of Mrs. Hostetler still beneath him, an unconscious suspect beside him, DCI Barnaby hovering over him. Jones remembered the fear in Barnaby’s eyes, his boss no doubt worried about a serious injury. Things had quickly deteriorated, Jones’s stomach deciding it wouldn’t take it anymore, its tolerance for the smell no longer existent. Barnaby had turned him onto his side; the pain in his back and knee excruciating. He couldn’t remember much after that, his memory filled with shadows drifting in and out of sight.
“Ben?”
Jones opened his eyes, vision blurred, eyelids beyond heavy. The floor beneath him was no longer wooden, hard, sticky with Mrs. Hostetler. Instead, it was soft, comfortable. Beige walls, white sheets and a hospital issued blanket told Jones his location. Barnaby sat beside his bed, looking worried and uncomfortable in a thin plastic chair.
“Sir.”
Barnaby leaned forward, hand resting on the edge of the bed, “Do you need anything?”
Lacking the energy to move, only wanting to go back to sleep, Jones said, “No, sir.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“Going to psychoanalyse me are you, sir,” said Jones.
“Just making sure you’re okay, Jones. Concerned boss and all that.”
Feeling awkward and emotionally uncomfortable, Jones turned his head toward Barnaby, his shoulders tightening with a dull ache. Jones could feel his brain shifting, somehow knocked off kilter, leaning heavily to the left. He closed his eyes hoping his equilibrium would quickly catch up, balance slow to return. Opening his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice the expectant expression Barnaby was wearing. His boss was waiting for an answer, confirmation his sergeant was okay.
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jones. “Anyway, the worst of it was Mrs. Hostetler.”
“How so?”
“Well . . . she was all over me.”
“Getting a bit were you, Jones,” said Barnaby.
“Not my type, sir.”
“No,” said Barnaby. “Of course not.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
Barnaby smiled. “If you start having erotic nightmares about dead women, you’ll tell me?”
“In explicit detail, sir,” said Jones. “Did I kill him?”
“His name is Arnold Bunning. And no, you didn’t kill him. Gave him a nasty concussion though.”
Jones frowned, forehead creasing as he tried to remember. “I don’t know him.”
“Should you?”
“He said he knew who I was,” said Jones. “Said something about money.”
“Ahh,” said Barnaby, the colour draining from his face as he leaned back into the plastic chair. “Jones, about that . . .”
“Sir?”
“Our witness, Mrs. Wilson, told me there’s a rumour going around the village that Mrs. Hostetler was a hoarder when it came to money. It was rumoured she had a small fortune hidden somewhere in her cottage.”
“We searched the house. There was no money.”
“She did say it was a rumour,” said Barnaby.
“He broke my knee because of a rumour?”
“Dislocated your kneecap,” said Barnaby.
“Well, that’s all right then.”
“They had to give you a general anaesthetic so they could put it back into place, something about too much pain and muscle spasm making it difficult. They’re waiting for the swelling to go down before they put a knee brace on your leg.”
“Oh,” said Jones, nodding in bewilderment.
“And you’ve got severe bruising on your back.”
“Is that all?”
“You’ve still got most of Mrs. Hostetler all over you.”
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four
Master Fan Fiction List